The Bookshop Keeps Strange Hours
by TheLeafOnTheWind
Summary: A.Z. Fell & Co has very strange hours that aren't strange at all, really. or A series about the Bookshop that never seems to be open, and the lost souls who manage to visit it.


Ally is walking around London. This is not the typical sort of thing Ally does. Ally is very much attracted to the concept of sitting, usually. Sitting in their chair at home, sitting on the tube, sitting at school. Altogether an underrated pastime, sitting. It occurs to them they never properly appreciated sitting before it wasn't much of an option.

In any case, Ally is walking around London. They have been for hours, really. It doesn't seem like that long, they have been distracting themselves quite well, they think. Window shopping, poking about little antique shops until long after the shopkeep starts to glare.[1]

When the sun begins to set, they realize where they are walking, and slow to a stop. It hasn't really sunk in yet that they can't really go back home. Tears start to build up before they are ruthlessly suppressed. They rub their sleeve across their face a few times and take a deep breath. Turning fully around, Ally stalks off in the opposite direction.

* * *

It isn't until much later that Ally realizes this may not have been the best choice. In an unfamiliar neighbourhood, night falling, no real destination. They check their phone and see many, many texts and one call from their brother.

Nothing from their mother.

It's 9:43PM, their phone is about to die, and they have no idea where they are.

Panic begins to build. Today started terribly, and it looks as if it's about to end terribly, too. Ally bites their lip nervously and checks if there is a tube station or a bus stop or anything nearby, and sees that at least they are vaguely near Tottenham Court. Before they can really orient themselves, their phone dies, and Ally lets out a noise of frustration.

As if in response, the wind picks up, and Ally shivers and burrows into their too-thin sweater. They will make it through this. A deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, and they're getting a bit lightheaded, perhaps they ought to slow down a bit.

To add insult to injury, Ally feels the first few telltale drops of rain. They're cold, they've been kicked out, their phone is dead, and now it's raining. Perfect. The tears start to build again, and this time they don't expect to stop them.

Ally sits[2] on the closest surface—some random stoop—and curls up as much as they can, getting ready for a good, long cry in the rain, when they hear a slight rustling behind them, followed by the gentle click of an unlocked door. They look behind them, and see that the store has just opened. A glance at the hours shows—

_Every Third Tuesday, 9:45PM-11:10PM, unless I am away, in which case the shop shall remain closed._

…

A breath of altogether too-wet almost-laughter. What on earth?

Willing to use anything to try to put off their inevitable breakdown, Ally stands up and tentatively opens the door. It creaks gently and hits the bell above it, a light tinkling echoes through the shop. A waft of perfect warm air hits them, comforting after the chill of nighttime outside, and they let out a sigh of relief.

Their first impression is that this place must have been made for comfort.[3] Bookcases tower on either side, just this side of too cluttered. The air smells of dust and books and leather and candles—in a bookshop? Is that safe?—and just a hint of honey, warm and heady. By the (admittedly filthy) windows, a cushion has been worn down by long years of use. A skylight in the center of the shop issues the distinct pitter-patter of heavy rain. Ally is particularly glad they came in, now; they do not relish much of anything in _that_.

From behind one of the over-packed shelves comes the proprietor of this weird (comforting) place, looking altogether immersed in deciding between two horrendously old books before looking up at Ally. His (his? It doesn't do to presume) face flickers quickly through irritation, confusion, and realization before settling into sympathy.[4] "Oh, dear," he says, his accent as proper as his strangely Victorian ensemble.[5]

A handkerchief seems to appear out of nowhere. "It's raining something dreadful, my dear, do dry up," he says, handing it over. It is the softest fabric they've ever seen, cream with a little white wing at a corner. Ally takes it, wiping their face as gently as possible so as not to ruin something so clearly expensive, as the man gestures her farther into the shop and into a ridiculously plush armchair and disappears farther into the back.

He comes back just a moment later with a tray holding a variety of pastries and two steaming cups of tea. "Here you are," he says, handing one of the teas directly to them. The cup doesn't match the saucer, neither does the other pair. It looks as if cream has already been added, so Ally takes a sip. It is exactly to their preference, down to honey rather than sugar. They start as a thick tartan blanket is laid over their shoulders.

"… Thank you."

"Think nothing of it."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, the rain pattering against the skylight, until the man (Mr. Fell, he tells her, of A.Z. Fell & Co, waving vaguely at the books) starts speaking.

"You seem troubled, child." He is hesitant, not wanting to trod where he is not welcome. Ally swallows heavily, sure that the lump in their throat is about to burst forth. The kindness being shown to them is helping and not. They should be home, their mother should be doing this, Ally shouldn't be relying on a stranger—a _stranger_—for comfort.

The stranger heaves a soft sigh, and gestures to the snacks. "Tell me, have you ever been to the patisserie down the road? Maison Bertaux?" He looks for Ally's reaction.

Ally blinks in bewilderment, and shakes their head. "I… I'm not really. From the area."

"Ah, of course not dear, nor am I, really." He gives them a conspiratorial look as though sharing an inside joke. They have no idea what he means by this. A pastry is lifted by delicate hands towards Mr. Fell. "You really must try one," he urges. They do, and it is absolutely delightful, flaky pastry tasting heavily of butter and perhaps orange, steaming as they bite into it.

The quiet falls again, both sipping at their tea that never seems to cool or run out. They take another pastry, a tart this time. It is equally as perfect as the last.

A few (how many?) moments of comfort, of relaxation. Ally feels the gnawing in their stomach calm slightly, the manic energy they had been suppressing all day easing into a pool of thick nothingness. Something to be dealt with, certainly, but somewhat more distant.

"Do you…" Ally starts, to an encouraging expression. "Do you ever feel… wrong? Like you aren't what you're supposed to be?" They're not making any sense, they know that, but Mr. Fell seems to understand,[6] and they can't seem to stop. "I—I mean—my mother always said—I don't know what I'm supposed to _do_." The tears are coming this time, and Mr. Fell offers another handkerchief, his eyebrows knotting with concern. "I can't go home," a declaration. "I _can't_ go home, and my mom said I'm not hers anymore, how could she _say that_ I'm her _child _I thought parents were supposed to _love me no matter what_, that's what she always said after dad but now she _doesn't_, and Dan texted but my phone is _dead_ I can't call _anyone_ for help and even if I _could _nobody would help me if they know I'm like—," their teacup shatters and they cut off, a rock in their throat. Mr. Fell looks almost ready to cry too as Ally's tea seeps into the carpet, and Ally knows this is just another thing they've _ruined _tonight they should just _leave_ and they start to get up to do just that when—.

A breathy "Oh my dear," and a hand on their forearm, a sad smile peeking through.

A sniffled, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Ally thought they had internalized this more.

He shakes his head, "There is nothing at all to be sorry about, my dear. Are you injured?" He begins picking up the largest shards of porcelain, and waves towards the carpet, where there are miraculously no shards at all. "See? No harm done."

Ally nods their head and curls up in the armchair, sniffling and making liberal use of the handkerchief, too far gone to care. They are so, so tired of today, and don't even realize when they drift off to sleep.

* * *

_Sleep, and dream of whatever you like best._

* * *

_They are curled up on the couch, watching a baking show. _

_They are dancing gracefully in a ballroom, cheers of spectators surrounding them. _

_Dan and Ally lightly rib each other before collapsing into a fit of laughter. _

"_We'll love you no matter what, sweetpea."_

* * *

The next time Ally wakes, they are in that same absurdly plush armchair, covered with that thick tartan blanket, tears dry on their face. The bookkeeper—Mr. Fell—is across from them, reading what might be one of the books they were so intent on earlier.[7] A black snake is looped around his neck, looking quite satisfied with itself. The snake looks over to Ally, and dips its head down to Mr. Fell's ear, hissing quietly. He looks up with a cheerful smile, marks his place with what looks like an antique leather bookmark, and sets down his book.

"Ah, lovely, you're awake!"

Ally blinks blearily, rather confused about why they are in a strange bookshop, before reorienting themselves. "I'm sorry about earlier, with the teacup. And falling asleep in your shop."

"Quite all right, my dear. You certainly needed it." He turns a sympathetic look to Ally. "You've done so well, it must have been dreadful wrapped in a skin that isn't yours." He shares a look with the snake, though you wouldn't think a snake could share a look. "And…I rather hope I haven't overstepped my bounds, but I believe there is someone out front who might want to speak with you."

Ally sits up straight, terrified, but an encouraging nod and gesture bring them out of the armchair and towards the front, slowly peeking around a particularly stuffed bookcase until they see who it is.

"Dan…" they breathe. Slowly at first, then quite fast indeed, they cross the room and throw themselves at their brother. He hugs Ally tightly, whispering how he was _so worried_ after she—sorry, _they_—ran out of the house like that! He has had some _words_, he tells them, with their mother, and he's moving out. He's already in college, he was only even living at home to save up some, and he's already found the most _perfect_ place, it's even all furnished, so come live with him, _you didn't deserve that, she doesn't deserve you, I was__** so worried**__._

* * *

Aziraphale looks on, Crowley draped over his shoulders.

"You don't think the furnishing was a bit much, angel?"

Aziraphale smiles at the snake and strokes its head. "Oh, like their mother isn't going to have a streak of terrible luck this year?" The snake looks away almost self-consciously. Almost. "You fiend," he continues affectionately.

Ally and Dan leave the bookshop. The clock reads 12:10AM as the sign is flipped to _Closed_.

Right on time.

* * *

FOOTNOTES

* * *

[1] This may have been because Ally clearly should have been in school, at this point. Noon on a Tuesday? Come now. This may alternatively have been because of the fourth time Ally nearly knocked over a shelf containing certain irreplaceable items. They stayed until the seventh time.

[2] Collapses

[3] This is not, strictly speaking, true. Ally's first impression was that this was a _very_ strange bookshop, to be open at such hours. And why on earth was there a snake by the register?

[4] A.Z. Fell & Co has not sold a book in the last three years, a record Aziraphale is quite eager to keep going. He does occasionally get this sort of customer, though, looking for something not at all like a book, which he appreciates a great deal more.

[5] Ally didn't realize people still dressed like this, though they have to admit it fits somehow. He looks like he belongs in the store, with his old wardrobe, old books, old building. Even the man feels old somehow, though he doesn't look it. Perhaps it's the hair?

[6] Aziraphale remembers distinctly the first time he felt this way: in Rome, with the oysters, he, an angel, tempted Crowley, a demon. Really, though, Crowley should be the one talking to the poor soul, what with the Fall and all, but he's asleep on his perch.

[7] It was, in fact, an early copy of the fourth book of the "Just William" series, the only books that appeared different in his shop after the Apoca-wasn't.


End file.
